


The Girl

by itsjustsilver



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe, Can he be too overpowered? I mean come on, Dark, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Harm to Animals, It's Tom Riddle, Obsession, Overpowered Tom Riddle, POV Multiple, POV Tom Riddle, Possessive Tom Riddle, Psychopath Tom Riddle, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Psychopaths In Love, Sadism, Sane Tom Riddle, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2020-10-19 03:33:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20650505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsjustsilver/pseuds/itsjustsilver
Summary: A young Tom Riddle meets a girl like himself.Female Harry Potter/Tom RiddleDark StoryTags will be updated as the story progresses





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story started life as Tomione, but in the end I did not like the pairing. However I am in the mood to write from Tom's POV so it's now being reworked as a Tomarry. It will, as usual, be a dark story.
> 
> For those who have read my other stories, this Tom will behave a lot like Foundher's Tom in terms of overt violence and licentiousness, but his relationship with our female Harry will have the 'unhealthy, twisted love' dynamic similar to the one in Corruption- at no point will he intentionally harm her.
> 
> If this sounds good to you, keep reading.

The waves crashed thunderously against the jagged sides of the cliffs with timed precision. Even from deep inside the cave, Tom could hear the violent sounds; unstoppable nature pitted against unstoppable nature. It soothed him, those sounds; its cadence matched the angry rhythm of his own inner force.

He closed his eyes and listened. It seemed that that the force within him expanded and contracted with the movement of the ocean. Unstoppable; barely contained by his own physical body, by his own mental barriers. If he were to let go, were to exhale all that power with the force of his breath, would he disappear? Or would he join with the ocean? Become _more_? Could he control even the ocean?

Tom breathed evenly, wanting to test the limits of his power but hesitant to truly let go. What if he did disappear? What if he did become nothing? His fingers quivered, and he clenched his fists, nails digging painfully into his palms, disgusted by his own weakness. His power swirled around him reactively as though cognizant of his misgivings and seeking to reassure him of its inalienable presence.

The cold air and moisture coating his skin made him feel human, feel there. He only welcomed that grounding feeling during times such as this when he was very aware of his mortality. Breathing deeply, he allowed himself to properly feel the dank cold of the cave. Under the thin inadequate layers of clothing, all the hairs of his arms and legs were raised. The icy air was uncomfortable, bordering on painful with each pull of air through his nose. A warm drop of something landed on his forehead and trickled down the bridge of his nose.

Tom looked up from where he was sitting in his cross-legged meditative position.

Ah.

Deep in thought, he had quite forgotten his unwilling companions. They were suspended above him, slowly revolving, the boy and girl trussed together by invisible ropes. Tom wiped off the tear that had fallen on him and surveyed them with disgust.

It had been fun at the beginning, watching and hearing them squirm and beg and finally scream, but he had grown bored of even that and eventually silenced them.

_Pathetic._

Tom would never, ever beg for anyone’s mercy. Ever.

The girl was still silently crying, her face red from hanging upside down. The boy was drifting in and out of consciousness. Tom considered leaving alone. But if he returned without them, there would be questions. People had seen them go off together, and Mrs. Cole had her suspicions about him and never really seemed to swallow his quick excuses like the others did. She could make his life very difficult. And his life was easy now. Not good, but easy.

Besides, he did like having the other children afraid of him. It was fun.

He looked up at the pair again and wondered briefly whether he would find their rotting corpses still dangling when he returned, if he did leave them there. And that image made him chuckle and almost walk away right then.

The sound of his laugh travelled and multiplied eerily throughout the cavern. The boy came to again and started screaming.

With a lazy wave of his wrist, Tom returned their voices. Immediately, terrified high-pitched screams filled the air. Tom frowned and with another flick, there was silence again. “I’m going back now,” he said, and his childish voice echoed back at him from the darkness. “If you don’t want me to leave you here, you’ll have to convince me to take you.”

Their voices were returned again.

The girl spoke first. Through sniffles and loud hiccups, she promised Tom anything, _anything_. The boy joined in. What did Tom want? They would do _anything_.

Tom rolled his eyes. Did they not realise how boring they were?

He loosed his hold on them and they fell unceremoniously onto the smooth pebbled ground. Tom watched them disentangle themselves and face him, each trying to hide behind the other. Their glistening large frightened eyes peeked out from their pallid faces.

He beamed at them, delighting when they inched back. “Break her arm,” said Tom, through his smile.

“What?” they stuttered, clutching at each other.

Tom gestured. “You said you’d do anything. Prove it. I want you…” He pointed to the boy. “…to break her arm.” His finger moved to point to the girl. She dissolved into another round of sobs.

“I-I don’t know how…” the boy stuttered. His blotchy face was a picture of unsophisticated misery. “Please, Tom, we’re sorry…”

Tom stared coldly at the pathetic whining boy. Of course, he wouldn’t do it. Give these animals a little mercy and they stop taking you seriously. How short their memories were.

He turned away and started walking back to the mouth of the cave.

The blubbering increased in intensity. “Please Tom, no, I’m doing it, I’m doing it…”

There was the sound of scuffling and punching and howling. Tom turned to watch with interest. The older boy was hitting at the younger girl as she screamed dramatically and lay where she had fallen, making no attempt to defend herself.

With how half-heartedly his orders were being carried out, there was little chance of her arm breaking.

Tom walked back to them.

“You’ll need a rock,” he said softly. He pointed to the edge of the lake. “Over there.”

Two pale, dirt and tear streaked faces turned up to look at him, and then at where he was pointing. The boy swallowed; the sound distinct from the fading echoes of Tom’s voice. He straightened up slowly and then gasped and cowered back again.

A girl had appeared right at the spot by the lake.

One moment there was blackness and more blackness, and then the shadowy form of a girl had materialized. For it was undoubtedly a girl; long black hair and lace and pale limbs stumbling and collapsing with a startled ‘_huh_’.

That surprised sound was repeated by the watching group.

In all of Tom’s admittedly short life, he had seen a lot of things, had made a lot of things happen, and fancied himself the type not easily spooked, but this was the first time he had made another human appear just by pointing. Except he knew he hadn’t made her appear. Tom had never made anything happen by accident, at least not since he was seven and realised that he had to master himself if he was going to survive in this bland, friendless world. He had not called for her, had not even been directing his forces, which lay right now just under his skin, excited and curious.

The girl was scrambling up even as he was striding curiously forward.

“Who are you?”

“Where am I?”

They both spoke at the same time; him imperiously, her bemusedly. Their voices clashed harshly and echoed across the placid waters.

She did not look nearly as shocked or afraid as she should be for having appeared inexplicably in a dark cave, although Tom knew that such feelings sometimes took a while to register. No doubt she would be hysterical and incoherent in a few minutes. Before that, however, he was going to make sure he got all the answers he needed.

Answers to questions that were rapidly forming in his head now. Questions such as ‘What are you?’, and ‘Why are you here?’ and ‘How did you do that?’ and many more besides.

The girl appeared younger than Tom- maybe two or three years younger. Tom was almost eleven whereas this girl looked to be around eight or nine years old. Her hair was as black as his, but she had green eyes. They glittered reflectively in the darkness from a pointed porcelain face, and her long black hair was tied back in a red ribbon. Her lace dress was red, and she wore a gold bead bracelet on one wrist. She looked well-fed and pampered.

She was everything Tom was not, likely had everything Tom did not. But if his instincts were right, she was also special like him.

His chest tightened in that familiar clench of envy and resentment. “Who are you?” he said again, his voice laced with his vitriol.

She was scanning him quickly, taking him in, mouth opening. Her eyes darted behind him to where his two forgotten victims were still shivering and sniffling and trying hard to look like they were a natural part of the cave.

He saw the fear seep into her eyes and tighten her mouth. It curved her lips downward.

_There_ it was.

“Who are you?” Tom pressed, urgently.

She scrunched her eyes shut, ignoring him. “Home,” she said. “Homehomehomehomehom…”

Tom knew what was about to happen.

“No,” he hissed, lunging forward to grab her by the wrist. His fingers caught in her bracelet, she yanked her hand back, the bracelet snapped and then she was gone, leaving Tom holding a broken gold line of falling beads.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that expressed interest in this story. New chapter for you.

Tom stared out into the empty darkness for a moment, then turned his gaze to the bracelet in his hand. Half of the little gold balls that had been threaded through its delicate chain had fallen. He saw several of them glinting in the near pitch black of the pebbled ground. He stooped and felt for them futilely before grunting his frustration and using his powers to gather the errant beads. They flew to him from wherever they had scattered, some wet from having rolled into the lake, and reconstructed themselves into an unbroken loop. Pocketing the bracelet, he strode back to his frightened companions.

“You didn’t see anything, got it?” he told them fiercely, towering over the older, taller children. “If you even _look_ like you’re thinking about what happened today, I’ll make you forget your own names.”

He wasn’t sure he could actually do that, but they’d seen enough of what he _could_ do, to believe anything was possible of him now.

They spent the rest of the journey back to the beach in silence. Tom was mulling over the appearance and disappearance of the girl. What she had done, that must have been teleportation. He had read about it and yet not even imagined that it could be within the realms of possibility.

Gritting his teeth, he turned to look back at the dwindling mouth of his cave in the distance as he sped himself and his companions swiftly across the water.

He had revelled in his ability to fly, to make things hover; to move things without respect for the laws of gravity. Hanging that irritating boy Billy Stubbs’s rabbit from the rafters, that had been one of the grander moments of his early days of experimenting. And they had only cried and screamed and refused to look past the mangled fur to appreciate Tom’s delicate handling of the true challenges of the situation; tying an adequate noose around a distressed animal from his vantage point far down below had been difficult.

That was of course before he realised that he could have simply flown upwards along with the rabbit or that he could bind as well with his invisible forces much more tidily and much more powerfully than any physical rope. And it was certainly before he realised that he could manipulate the simple minds of these animals into doing his bidding.

Now the ability he once thought so refined: to propel his body weightlessly through the air, seemed insignificant in comparison to the ability to teleport; a common parlour trick. And if there was anything Tom hated, it was the common things.

And that girl, she was even younger than him, and she had known how to do that! But of course, he thought, fingering the gold bracelet in his pocket, she must have been taught by someone. _She_ wasn’t an orphan. She was being guided by someone at least. There was probably a whole other world out there of people just like him- special, powerful people. And Tom of course had fallen through the cracks, unwanted, and unclaimed.

A thought struck him at that moment: What if he had been abandoned because he wasn’t special, wasn’t powerful enough? What if he was in fact a runt, good only for lording over the other useless, unwanted, powerless castoffs?

He gnashed his teeth together. His forces swirled violently around him again, gently reminding, reassuring. It was not true. He was powerful. He was special. He would show them, he would find these people, whoever they were. They had made a mistake in prematurely deciding he wasn’t good enough for them. He would find them, and he would show them how wrong they were.

And he himself had been wrong to have imposed limits on himself. And all because he did not want to part with even a fraction of control? He should not have held himself back, would never hold himself back again.

They had arrived at the beach, at a deserted area that nobody ever went to because it was far from the main part and the sand there was rough and sharp. The two children walked as far away from him as possible- just far enough to feel safe, but not too far that it was obvious they were running away from him. They needn’t have worried; he had long forgotten them. His thoughts were far away, planning and plotting.

Over the other side of a sand dune they found the rest of their group getting ready to leave. A woman with a fluttering scarf tied about her head was whirling around, counting with pursed lips. She saw them.

“Where have you children been?” she snapped, voice harried and annoyed. “What have you gotten yourselves into? Why, you’re all scraped up! Get over here. Amy, have you been crying?”

-

Four weeks had passed since that incident at the cave. Four weeks in which Tom had applied himself single-mindedly to the task of teleporting. Barely sleeping or eating, he spent hours at first standing at one end of the room with the window behind him, willing himself into the space at the other end.

He replayed in his mind’s eye all the things the girl had done before disappearing. She had closed her eyes and repeated her destination. Tom did that also. He scrunched his eyes shut exactly like she had and said “Theothersideofmyroomtheothersideofmyroom” like a mantra. Nothing happened, except that Mrs. Cole came into his room one afternoon, an older man in tow.

They crowded his small room. Mrs. Cole introduced the man to Tom as Mr. Stevens and then left them alone, closing the door behind her.

Tom, still at his spot in front of the window, appraised the adult. In a grey pinstriped suit, with his greying hair and small, close-set grey eyes, he appeared the epitome of uncreative, colourless adulthood.

“Tom,” said the man, first to speak. “Can I call you Tom?” Receiving no response, he ploughed on. “I am a friend of Mrs. Cole’s-”

Tom said sharply, “No, you’re not.”

“But I am,” said the man. “I’ve known-”

“Don’t bother lying. I know what you are.”

The man blinked, then quickly collected himself and bestowed on Tom an encouraging, friendly smile. “Oh, yes? What am I then?”

“You’re not the first, you know.”

“Not the first to what?” said the man, who was getting the feeling that the thread of the conversation was well and truly running away from him.

“I’m not crazy,” Tom said in a measured voice. This was the third time Mrs. Cole had brought someone like this man here to see him; it was clear she thought there was something seriously wrong with him. He wasn’t like the others, that was true enough, but there was nothing _wrong_ with him. “I have not been hearing voices or seeing invisible people.”

“Haven’t you?” the man said lightly. “You have been heard talking to yourself. Repeating the same words over and over.”

He shrugged. “Maybe they heard me praying.” Tom had heard many of the other children praying. Sometimes they prayed in front of him. But no matter how devoutly they entreated to their Lord, God or Saviour, none had ever come to rescue them from Tom.

He wondered now what it would take to make this man pray also.

“Praying,” repeated the grey man, somewhat sceptically.

Tom smiled congenially. “Don’t you believe in prayer, Doctor…?”

“Stevens,” said Dr Stevens. “What I believe in is not important here, my boy. It’s what you believe in that interests me.”

Tom swallowed his distaste for the glibly used term of affection. He wasn’t anyone’s _boy_. “What do you care what I believe in?” he retorted rudely. “You’re not a priest.” Mrs. Cole had also sent priests his way. Priest or doctor, Tom usually dealt with them the same way: by chattering incessantly on the usual boyish topics. They would grow bored of him within twenty minutes and never come back. But today…

The man leaned in a little, the material of his suit creasing around his shoulders. “Right then. You’ve been praying, you say. You’ve been praying to the other side of your room then?”

A quick burst of anger against Mrs. Cole and the other children coloured Tom’s mind. It must have also coloured his face for the doctor looked extremely satisfied. “It’s all right,” he said, nodding encouragingly. “I’m not here to judge. So, you’ve been… praying to the other side of your room. Why? What’s in the other side of your room? You can tell me.”

Tom let his head drop. “I can tell you?” he said in a small voice. “I can tell you everything? You won’t tell the others? You won’t take me away? You won’t lock me up?”

The doctor was unable to keep the satisfaction out of his voice. “Of course not, my dear boy,” he said. “I would never even dream of doing such a horrible thing. You can trust me.”

“Well,” began Tom hesitantly. He twisted his fingers together as if he was nervous. “I’m just only trying to do what the girl did.”

“The girl? What girl?”

“The girl in the other side of my room,” explained Tom.

There was silence, a silence where he could hear Dr Stevens breathing in an excited way. “Tell me more about the girl,” he said. “What’s she like?”

Tom hesitated again, not sure where and how far to take his story. “She’s playful,” he said, looking at his feet. “We like to play.”

“What kind of games do you play?” questioned Dr Stevens. Tom looked up. Dr Stevens smiled his fake adult smile. “Are they games you play alone?”

“We like to make things float,” said Tom softly. “Things. Animals. People…”

“How interesting,” said the doctor, whose voice was thick with lust. “How interesting. Floating… And do you float yourself, Tom?”

“If it helps,” said Tom. “It’s useful for when I want to reach high places.” He scratched his chin and frowned. “Although I prefer to think of it as flying.”

“How interesting… How interesting…” Dr Stevens had taken out a little notepad and was scribbling furiously on it, murmuring to himself. “Normally I find that reports of unusual behaviour tend to be exaggerated, but in this case… Episodes of psychosis, delusions, definitely. Yes… Derealisation… This is exactly what I’m looking for. Perhaps this could be better explored in the clinic…”

“But you said you wouldn’t take me anywhere,” said Tom, eyes growing wide.

His visitor lowered his notepad. “It would just be for a few hours to begin with,” he said, trying and failing to look reassuring. His eyes gleamed like the eyes of a predator that had cornered its unsuspecting prey. “You have a very unique brain, my boy, and I’d sure like to hear more about your friend…”

Tom mirrored his expression. “Just for a few hours,” he repeated mockingly. “Oh, yes. Let me guess. A few hours in your clinic and no one will see crazy Tom Riddle ever again. Is that why you came here to visit with a poor orphan? Hoping to acquire an easy new lab rat for yourself?”

Dr Stevens sat in dumbfounded silence for a few seconds. He blinked and drew back. “You silly little boy,” he sneered, abandoning his friendly demeanour. “So, you’ve been having me on, eh? Well let me tell you. All it takes is a few signatures on a piece of paper for you to become my so-called lab rat. Not even that. Not for unwanted orphans well known for telling fibs. No one will notice or care that you haven’t come back.” He turned his head to check that the door was still shut, speaking all the while. “You’ll find my research involves more taking apart than putting together. But don’t worry, you’ll soon find out-”

Tom didn’t care to find out, and Dr Stevens never got the chance to tell him, because he had turned back to find all the furniture in Tom’s room floating a metre off the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you like this version of Tom Riddle?
> 
> Let me know your thoughts!  
Chapter last edited: 2 May 2020


	3. Chapter 3

“Is there a problem, Dr Stevens?” Tom asked, panting lightly with uncontrolled excitement and anticipation. He circled the man; a child-shark. He had never, until now, dared to demonstrate his abilities in front of an adult, had certainly never dared to subdue one, but now he had done both without quite meaning to, without even thinking ahead. He didn’t really know yet what he was going to do, so he circled, having cornered his prey and unsure how to go about taking it down.

To buy himself time, he tugged the notepad from the man’s hand to read. It was held so securely that the flimsy lined paper almost tore from his efforts. “What have you been writing about me? Let’s see here… Suspect schizo- schizo-” He tried to make sense of the untidy scribbles of medical jargon before losing interest and giving up.

Moving closer, standing on tiptoes, he reached into the inner pockets of the man’s grey pinstriped jacket and found a calf leather wallet and an engraved silver business card holder. Tom rifled through them. “Hmmm. Dr Henry Stevens… Neuropsychology… Research Institute of- Ah, what’s this… Beautiful family you have here, Dr Stevens…”

Tom fingered the black and white photo and looked over the petrified man. “I did say you were not the first… You are definitely the most interesting, however. None of the others ever threatened me like you did. But then, I suppose I never provoked them either. But you see, I’m not in the best mood right now. My own research has been… _going nowhere_.” He laughed a fey laugh.

There was silence. Elsewhere in the building, he heard the shouts of orphans fighting. Heavy footsteps pounding up the staircase preceded the gravelly voice of an adult female smoker trying to restore order.

This brought Tom the reminder that not only were they not quite alone, but that Mrs. Cole would likely be coming back soon to check on them. This was exactly the sort of situation he could not be caught in. He cursed inwardly at his rashness and hid his agitation by circling the man again.

“We don’t have much time left, Dr Stevens,” said Tom, settling the furniture with a wave, and preparing to deliver his bluff. “This is what’s going to happen. Mrs. Cole is going to come back in, and you are going to tell her that nothing is wrong with me, and then you’re going to leave and never bother me again, otherwise I’m going to make bad things happen to your family. I can make bad things happen just by thinking it, so you better not cross me!”

And Dr Stevens, finding that he could talk again, and move again, blinked around, then focused on Tom.

All of Tom’s prior experience in scaring others into submission had been with other children. But Dr Stevens was not a child and was not easily scared. His eyes locked onto the picture that Tom was still holding, and he lunged for it with a wordless growl.

Tom was almost caught off-guard by the man’s speed and sudden ferocity. He held the picture out of reach and pushed back at the man with his other hand, sending a surge of his power to aid him.

His enemy was flung backwards. “What have you done to me?” he snarled, getting up and assuming an aggressive, hunched stance, his arms raised, and his hands curled into fists in front of him like a boxer. “What kind of trick are you playing here?”

Unlike children who were readily acceptant of the supernatural and almost never questioned the proof of Tom’s abilities, this man was an adult who prided himself in his rational, scientific brain. He clearly thought he had been duped- perhaps that he had been drugged or hypnotised in some way and was hallucinating the whole thing.

This could work in Tom’s favour.

He easily froze the man again, fastidiously returned the photo and notes and business cards to their respective compartments, then tucked the wallet and silver card case back into the inner jacket pockets where he had found them. He smoothed the material of the jacket with his small hands, walked to the door, and opened it. An older boy was hurrying by. Tom grabbed him by the elbow.

“R-Riddle?” stuttered the boy, flinching and allowing himself to be dragged into the room. He stared wide-eyed at the back of the paralysed adult. “Wh-What’s this? Who’s this?”

“Shut it,” hissed Tom. “This man collapsed and then he got up and said he was feeling under the weather and wants to leave. And you saw it all happen, got it?”

The boy’s wide-eyed stare was fixed on the frozen Dr Stevens, who was still in his fighting posture. “Why in’t he moving? What’s wrong with him?”

Tom shook him. “Renwick!” he hissed through gritted teeth.

“Renwick!” The voice of Mrs. Cole came floating down the corridor.

“Shite!” cursed Tom, pushing the boy out the door in front of him.

“Where did that boy run off to…” Mrs. Cole was muttering angrily. “Ah, there you are. Did you get the- What were you doing in Tom’s room?”

“Mrs. Cole!” cried Tom, appearing in the doorway and looking alarmed. “Thank goodness you’re here! I think your friend fainted.”

“What?” exclaimed Mrs. Cole, pushing past the two boys to enter the room.

Tom recalled his forces from the body of the man who immediately whirled around; fists still raised. Mrs. Cole gasped very loudly. Tom stifled a laugh.

“What is this?” growled the doctor. He spotted Tom peering at him from behind Mrs. Cole. “You!” He lurched forward.

Mrs. Cole, who understandably thought she was being attacked, let out a shrill scream. There were other gasps from behind Tom; a small crowd of curious orphans had gathered to watch the spectacle, although most of them were keeping their distance.

“What’s the matter, Dr Stevens?” inquired Tom, pasting a suitably anxious expression on his face. “Do you still feel poorly?”

“You, you made… I heard you, plotting with that other kid!”

“Dr Stevens! Are you quite alright?” ventured Mrs. Cole bravely, one arm out sideways as though to shield the boys behind her. “The boys said you fainted.”

“They’re liars!” roared Dr Stevens, looking enraged and confused. “He took the photo of my family.” He pointed an accusing finger at Tom. “He stole, he threatened-!”

“I don’t know anything about your photo I’m sure,” said Tom quickly. “I was just telling you all about my favourite sport when you collapsed. Renwick and I saw you collapse!” He grasped the boy by the arm and thrust him forward.

Mrs. Cole turned to give Tom a sharp look. “Renwick was with me just minutes ago,” she said.

Renwick looked terrified. “I-I… It’s just like Tom said,” he stuttered.

“They’re lying!” Dr Stevens insisted, his face turning the deep purple colour of a fresh bruise.

A small voice piped up from behind them. “But it’s true, I heard you fall down while I was walking to the kitchen. I heard Tom calling for help.”

Tom turned to see Amy Benson, one of the two he had taken to the cave the month before, send him a timid look.

“How could I have done any of those things to an adult? He’s so much bigger than me,” said Tom. He turned out his pockets. “And there! I don’t have any photo.”

Murmurs rose from the watching orphans. The spotlight of Mrs. Cole’s suspicion moved onto Dr. Stevens.

“What’s this ruckus, orphans?” A disgruntled looking portly man was striding through the narrow corridor in their direction.

Mr. Leaver, nicknamed The Toad by the orphans, was the grandson of the now dead founder of the orphanage. He was a person whom the children very rarely saw, and when they did, went out of their way to avoid. The gawking orphans dispersed, or tried to; Mrs. Cole instructed Tom, Benson, and Renwick to stay behind, and Mr. Leaver himself, catching one of the fleeing older girls by the upper arm, asked her name, then told her to wait for him in his office for inspections.

“Must she really?” said Mrs. Cole, crossing her arms and pursing her lips.

“Got to make sure these orphans are kept on their toes,” Mr. Leaver said.

“I was attacked by this boy!” shouted the neglected Dr Stevens.

“One of my orphans attacked you, you say?” Mr. Leaver frowned and twirled his moustache.

“He attacked my mind; I must have been drugged. It must’ve been the tea, yes the tea that _you_ served me!” Dr Stevens glared at Mrs. Cole with such ferocious suspicion that she took another hasty step back.

Tom witnessed his ranting and the resulting argument with increasing amusement. It was going better than he could have hoped for.

Initially alarmed by the accusation levelled by the man against one of the orphans, his subsequent insistence at having been drugged or hoodwinked convinced Mr. Leaver that his time was being wasted. The doctor was asked to leave. Mr. Leaver berated Mrs. Cole for inviting quacks into the orphanage without his express approval, then went upstairs to his office, and the harassed-looking Mrs. Cole left to make herself a cup of perfectly harmless tea.

-

After that, Tom kept his head down, as he did every time Mrs. Cole sent a doctor or priest his way. The days dragged into weeks. They were headed into the month of June. Summer was blooming. During those generally pleasant months, the children were often let out to play in one of the parks, and Tom would sometimes set out by himself to explore as the others amused themselves in playing tug of war or football or hopscotch.

In the first excursion of the season, Tom, still laying low, forced himself to stick close to the group, even going so far as to volunteer to set up the small table where Mrs. Cole and Mrs. Fields were now sitting at fanning themselves and engaging in idle gossip.

The task finished, he strolled about, observing his fellows and slowly sipping juice.

It was during this stroll that the inspiration hit for his next idea. One of the littler children, trying to jump past three blocked squares of hopscotch, fell and scraped their knee badly. Tom remembered how the girl- or, The Girl, as he now thought of her, had appeared in that cave, falling as though she had jumped through space and time to get there.

As the unhappy child was jeered and ran off crying for one of the older girls, he approached the remaining players, eager to investigate his new hypothesis. They parted for him.

“What’s Billy no mates want now?” muttered a new boy whose name Tom hadn’t yet bothered to learn. He was younger, but already bigger than Tom. Tom’s slender size and quiet, reserved demeanour regularly made him a prime target of bullying by uninitiated newcomers trying to assert their dominance. This boy was one of them.

“Ripple, was it?” He moved towards Tom, an exaggerated swagger in his arms.

“Riddle,” Tom corrected quietly. “I’m playing.”

“Oh, you’re playing?” The other boy laughed mockingly and turned back to the others. “Did you hear that? He’s playing. Little Lord Ripple finally decides he’s not too good for us.” He turned back with an ugly look on his plain face. “We don’t want you, so you can sod right off.”

Behind him, some of the other children shifted uneasily but did nothing. Tom did not like any kind of interference. He did not like others to be warned about him or away from him- it ruined the fun. His pulse ran quickly now in anticipation of it. It had been so, _so_ long since he’d had any sort of fun, and he itched to lash out and bloody the boy’s face and show him exactly what Tom could mean by _play_.

Maybe the spirit of aggression had cracked his mask because the other boy took an involuntary step back. Tom turned his head minutely to check if any of the adults were looking.

Although not very close by, and absorbed in each other’s company, both Mrs. Cole and Mrs. Fields had their faces turned in their direction. Controlling his temper, Tom allowed a subdued expression to melt the harsh planes of his face. He left, leaving the other child to his temporary victory.

This was probably better anyway. He wanted to experiment and doing so in front of a group of spectators was not a good idea, even if they were idiot children.

When he had found a better spot, half hidden by a copse of trees but near enough to the group that he would be able to hear if he was being looked for, he set about drawing a crude hopscotch in the dirt with a long twig. It was important to look like he was actually playing in case someone walked by.

Satisfied with his work, he tossed aside the twig and began. Feet planted at the beginning of the course, he jumped forward, eye on the end-most square, almost three metres ahead, and willed himself there.

No luck.

He turned back and placed his feet at the beginning and jumped again. Each time, unsuccessful, he turned back and tried again. He jumped with purpose; he jumped with eyes closed; he made himself fall; he jumped backwards; he made himself stumble; he hopped; he leaped.

“What sort of game is that?” someone asked.

Tom whipped around, face red and neck sweaty, angered at having been discovered in the midst of his failures, and ready to snap at whatever unfortunate soul had come upon him.

It was she:

The Girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our female Harry doesn't have a name yet. If you have suggestions, I'd love to hear them.
> 
> Leave me your comments etc etc


	4. Chapter 4

The Girl.

Again, in red; red velvet with ivory satin shoes that had no business being in a dirty park. Startled by the hostile expression on Tom’s face, she took an uncertain step back.

Tom bit his tongue, stamping down an angry retort, stamping down the desire to stomp over and shake her and demand how long she’d been spying on him. Because he couldn’t do that; she would just disappear if he did. She could. She’d done it before.

“It’s just hopscotch,” he answered.

She repeated the name. “I’ve never seen a game like that before. How do you play it?”

“You’ve never played hopscotch before?”

“No. Can I play?” she asked. “Will you teach me?”

“Sure,” he agreed. He stepped back to allow her space, like he would for a wild animal, to trick it into thinking him harmless and respectful. His powers whirled excitedly around him and reached hungrily for her. “If I teach you what I know, you’ll teach me what you know, right?” he asked slyly. “We have to be fair.”

“Yeah!” she said. She moved enthusiastically towards his roughly hewn hopscotch lines, oblivious to the energy of Tom’s excitement swirling around her like a maelstrom.

“You’ll teach me anything I want to know,” said Tom firmly.

“Yeah!”

“You promise.”

“Yeah!” She nodded her head impatiently. “Let’s play!”

“You know what happens if you break a promise?” he asked her.

She nodded. “You die.”

That response threw Tom. He was going to say that he would break her finger if she broke her promise, but it now seemed tame by comparison. _Very_ tame.

“You teach me Hopscotch, and I’ll teach you one game I know,” she said. “I know lots of games.”

Tom, recovering from his surprise, said, “I want you to teach me how you appear and disappear like you do.”

She made a face. “That’s not really a game.”

“Don’t care.”

“Okay.” She shrugged. “I’ve never taught it to anyone before though.”

“Don’t care. Come here.” He motioned her closer and began rapidly explaining the simple rules to Hopscotch, ending with, “And for markers, we’ll use these twigs.” He gave one to her. “Here, ladies first.”

She took the twig from Tom and set it in the first square, then went through the course. When she went to throw her twig to the next square, it went wide.

Her mouth twisted. “I’m much better at catching than I am at throwing,” she said defensively.

“Sure,” laughed Tom, a little meanly. He placed the other twig down and began his turn, hopping fluidly from one square to another. “Catching isn’t important in Hopscotch. Aiming is important so you need to aim properly, like this-” He threw his twig into the next square, where it landed neatly in its middle. “See? And now you try. It’s technically still my turn, but I’ll let you go again.”

She thanked him, then went through the course again and copied the way he had tossed his twig, giggling and clapping her hands when hers landed in the correct square.

“Better,” he smiled. She looked very pretty preening at his praise, and Tom found he quite liked teaching her; and he would have liked to keep going at it, but he had a goal here and would not let himself be distracted. “Now you know how to play Hopscotch,” he declared. “It’s your turn to teach me.”

“But we haven’t finished the game,” she pouted. “The game ends when someone wins. No one’s won yet.”

“I didn’t promise to play a whole game with you, I only promised to teach you how to play it,” said Tom, preparing to show anger.

“Oh, fine. Oh! I have a brilliant idea! What if we played the rest of the game by apparition? That way I can teach you and we can have fun at the same time!”

“Apparition?”

“Yeah! Apparition!” And she turned in a whirl of red skirts, disappeared, and with a loud pop, reappeared in one of the squares, stumbling a little. She re-oriented herself and faced Tom with a bright prideful smile. “Like this!”

Tom had taken an urgent, almost helpless step forward, as if he had been caught up in the flow of her movement. “Yes,” he growled. “Apparition. Teach it to me. _Now_.”

Something in his manner was startling to her; her smile dimmed a little. She also took a helpless step towards him, as if she were being forced in his direction.

Tom, aware suddenly that he had better manage his next response very well, tried to turn his avidity into enthusiasm for her proposed idea. “The faster I learn it, the faster we can play,” he said.

She flashed a smile at him, mollified. “Okay! My papa says most people have a hard time with it, but it’s really easy actually. All you have to do is-”

“Riddle!” An annoyed call floated out from somewhere behind him.

They both started. Tom turned his head unwillingly in the direction of the sound. The head of Mrs. Cole appeared around the trunk of a tree. Other orphans appeared behind her like ducklings following after their mother.

“Was someone here with you, Tom?” she asked, looking around.

Tom swivelled back. She was gone. The Girl.

“Wouldn’t be surprised if he were talking to himself,” said the plump new boy, stepping forward. “He’s probably got more than a few imaginary friends.” He spotted the abandoned hopscotch with its two twigs and doubled over with laughter. “He_ does_ have imaginary friends, look!”

-

The walk back to the orphanage was spent in charged silence. Tom seethed, letting his frustration and anger boil inside him, letting himself feel the humiliation of the insults to his person. Not that the insults on their own would be riling, but to have come so close, and to have it all taken away, and _then_ been humiliated on top of it… Something had to be done to make sure it never happened again.

At the door of the orphanage, the orphans filed slowly in. An air of gloom hung over them; they were one and all miserable to be back within its squalid four walls. Tom grabbed the arm of a passing boy, Bolte. “Tell me about him.”

Bolte was a boy a few months older than Tom and was one of the few souls that Tom actually got along well with. They had been partners in crime for several fun escapades, but while Bolte possessed a sense of adventure, he was not inherently cruel and had a line he wouldn’t cross; and Tom had yet to find his line.

“About whom?” Bolte feigned ignorance.

“I’m not in the mood for games,” warned Tom lowly. “Or rather, I am. Now decide if you’re going to be playing on my team or no.”

Bolte bit the inside of his cheek and exhaled bullishly. “Fine. Come on. I have to run an errand for The Toad, and I’ll tell you on the way.”

When they exited the orphanage again, they both carried packages in their arms.

“His name’s Charlie Pounds,” said Bolte. “He’s nine. He doesn’t know his father, and his mum’s living somewhere in the city.”

They weaved nimbly through the crowd.

“What do I care about his family?” said Tom crossly. “Tell me something I can use.”

“You’ll care. He’s fond of his mum. Didn’t want to leave her. She came by last week. Brought him a hamster. Hasn’t shut up about it since, and he’s already got it as fat as himself. She comes by every week if she can, cries all the time too, Anne says. Cries about him not getting enough to eat. Maybe you can give his mum something else to cry about-”

Tom stopped suddenly. Bolte stopped too. They leaned against the soot-blackened side of a building.

Being an actual, bona fide orphan himself, Tom often forgot how strong of a hold family had on most, even abusive or neglectful family such as many of his fellows had. He himself had never understood it; didn’t even understand why his fellow bona fide orphans seemed to burn with desire for a family and feel jealousy over those who had one. He had never felt jealous, only indifferent, sometimes even superior.

Now, as he contemplated his designs for revenge, he counted himself again fortunate for being family-less, having no weak links that could be used against him.

Tom drummed his fingers contentedly on the package he was holding. “You’re right, I do care.”

Bolte threw him a dirty look. “I’m going to hell for helping you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Who else does he share a room with?”

A list of names was recited.

Tom hummed as he flicked through the given names in his mind. None posed him a threat; none were likely to intervene on the boy’s behalf.

How unlucky for poor Charlie Pounds.

“First, spread the word that I’m not to be disturbed by anybody from now on,” he ordered. “No one is to bother me unless they’re helping me. Then, tell Charlie’s roommates that I want to play with Charlie after dinner tonight. Alone.”

“Where? In his room?”

“Yes.”

“How will you get him there? That jar of lard’s always in the kitchens after dinner.”

“You leave that to me.”

“If you hurt him too bad, his mum will come screeching, and Cole’ll know it was you,” warned Bolte. “She saw him taking the piss out of you… What if she tells the Toad this time? You’ll be kicked out.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to do yet,” sneered Tom. “But since you’re so worried about me you might as well help me keep Cole and the others distracted. And get me that hamster before dinner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot decide whether this story should go non-con or not, so I'll let you lovely readers decide. Vote by commenting with your opinion/desires.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if this story deserves to be continued.
> 
> Talk to me: https://curiouscat.me/itsjustsilver


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